If There's No Tomorrow
by LillyKincaid
Summary: First DA fanfic so PLEASE Read and Review! A romantic one-shot involving my favorite fantasy man  Alistair  and my favorite Origin  Female Elven Mage .*RATED M FOR GRAPHIC VIOLENCE, INJURY DESCRIPTION. MILD SEXUALITY* Enjoy! :D


It wasn't how he wanted it. Not how he imagined it. It couldn't be worse.

For Alistair the day started like any other. The ingrained habit of waking at dawn kept him and everyone else on schedule as the odd band of misfits dragged on layers of armor, passed rations of bread and dried meat around. Leliana had hummed melodically, beautifully, her soft tune drifting through the camp as they packed, stamped out and buried the fire pit, checked the map to ensure they were still heading towards Redcliffe. And they set off in the glare of the early morning sun, their breath rising above them in a thick, icy mist. Him, Leliana, Sten, Morrigan, Zevran, Wynne, and Bacon, Phaedra's fearless Mabari hound trudged through underbrush frozen in the night.

Bacon darted through it easily, happily pursuing unfortunate hares that made there presence known.

_Bacon, _he thought with a mental snort, _What had possessed Phaedra to name a Mabari Bacon?_

His golden eyes flickered from the dog to it's master, Phaedra, who was walking ahead of him, arm in arm with Leliana, chatting away about something he couldn't hear due to the scarf wrapped around his face. It was freezing. But no matter the temperature his eyes roamed their usual track, gazing over the elf's tiny waist sheathed in a tight robe, her backside swaying as she trudged forward.

As much as he enjoyed his fellow Grey Warden's conversation Alistair was glad for the distinct advantage of following a yard or two behind. It allowed and supplied fuel for many daydreams on their mindless treks through Ferelden. It also ensured he was grateful that armor didn't show certain changes these daydreams caused.

She was so beautiful.

She was elven, considered inherently pleasing to the eye, but to Alistair, there was so much more than that. Phaedra was infinitely more breath-taking then other elves with her piercing green eyes and waving chestnut colored hair. She had the usual lithe and dexterous elven physique, but she held herself differently than most elves he'd known. She stood straight and tall, head held high. She didn't allow any human to look down upon her. It was captivating.

But then this was not so different than some elf's who hated humans with an outspoken rage. What also made Phaedra so unique in posture and manner was her kindness, to elves and humans alike. Her unending patience with the prejudices of men, while never bending her dignity. What had he overheard Leliana say one time? Nobility of spirit? Yes, Phaedra had this, he could see it, and it made her stunning features positively radiant, like the dazzling light of the sun or the sharp brilliance of her magical talent. He thanked the maker everyday Duncan recruited her from the Circle of Magi. He couldn't imagine going on, finding the strength to honor his duty as a Grey Warden, without her.

And so the day wore on, the sun reached the peak of the sky without defrosting the frozen earth and still they marched forward monotonously. It was normal, boring, and safe. But it didn't stay that way.

Alistair was aware of it first. That pull, the dark and twisted reactive kinship that overwhelmed him whenever Darkspawn were nearby. They were to the left of them, in the thicket of trees trapping their small foot trail like great wooden bars, trapping them. Suddenly the forest was no longer welcoming. It was a prison and claustrophobia washed over him in painfully sharp waves, yet he drew his sword. All in a second of noticing the Darkspawn he was bombarded by perception and shouted a warning. Within another second everyone was at the ready, Sten, Bacon, and Alistair barreling to the direction he shouted, Leliana stringing three arrows in one shot, Phaedra and her fellow mages thickening the air with mana, controlled and shaped to their desire to aid their warriors.

Grinding steal and the slicing of flesh filled the air. The pungent, almost moldy odor of Darkspawn blood overwhelmed them all as they were accustomed to, and were easily able to ignore. It was an ordinary fight, one they mimicked time and time again all throughout Ferelden. The band of Darkspawn was of average size, average skill. They should only have been a small challenge, an exercise to fill the daily monotony. But today was different. Today he wasn't at his best, he knew it was his fault. He didn't sense the Genlock moving through the trees, avoiding being seen. He fell a Hurlock with his blade, and as that point of dreadful kinship faded with it's death the Genlock's position flared like an explosion in his consciousness and he whipped around, wrenching he sword from the Hurlock with a muscle screaming jerk, but he was to late. His vision zoomed straight onto Phaedra, noticing with unerring perception the fire balling in her fist as she too turned to face her attacker. But then there was a whistle of a blade through the air and the Genlock's sword pierced her torso, easily impaling her thin body, blood spurting from her back as the glistening blade tore completely through her abdomen. The spinning ball of defensive fire in her hand twisted into smoke as her eyes went round and she fell. She fell backwards as the Genlock pulled his weapon back, removing the sword from her and raising it at Alistair whose rage stained his vision red.

The Genlock's head burst in a spray of blood and shards of bone as, enraged, Alistair swung his long sword with the fury fueling him, giving him seemingly impossible strength. The body thudded to the ground and his sword followed it, dropped as he frantically kneeled beside Phaedra, her entire middle drenched bright red, the brown earth beneath stained near black with her blood.

Phaedra.

She was pale, her eyelids flickering like the wings of a moth, pure white then torn, there's nothing but red…

Phaedra.

Movement and noise meant nothing. Why was there movement there in the corner of his eye? What mattered to anyone, anything, besides the elf lying broken on the frozen earth?Phaedra.

He never told her. He flirted shamelessly, but he never told her he cared, never dared to kiss her. Her lips will be cold, like ice, the icy frost that steals all life from the ground. He would never kiss her. She was stolen from him.

Phaedra.

Phaedra.

"Alistair!"

"Phaedra. Phaedra. Phaedra."

His hand was red, pressed to a gapping whole that shuddered with dying life. A new hand pushes his away. Steals the red. Steals life…

"Phaedra. Phaedra. Phaedra. Phaedra."

That's his voice he realizes somewhere in a quite, numb part of his mind. And he can't stop, he must repeat her name in a morbid mantra of disbelief. Phaedra. She can't be gone.

Wynne's across the dead elf from him, quick words darting from her lips, her wise eyes narrowed to the wound, hands moving through blood and tearing away sopping fabric, exposing the gaping whole.

Phaedra's eyes are strips of white, barely whiter than her skin. She's always been pale, but with a glow of health. Radiance. Now she was white like an empty winter sky, a barren frozen wasteland. White as death. Stained red.

His hands hold her face, smearing her own blood along her skin as he strokes her cheeks, willing some response, willing those green eyes to open like spring…

"Alistair! Alistair!"

Suddenly the resonating repeat of the elf's name stops, but other than ceasing to talk, Alistair can't show any sign he can hear Wynne's anxious yet practical voice.

"We have to get her to camp. Alistair!" she huffs in frustration as he still doesn't respond. What can he do? She was dead. Hopelessly he tried to wipe the blood he inadvertently spread over her beautiful face. The more he tried the worse the red stain became.

"Morrigan!" Wynne calls suddenly, giving up on Alistair as a lost cause for the moment. "Can you scout for a safe place to camp? We have to get her out of the cold as soon as feasible."

It was a testament to her true affection for Phaedra that Morrigan did not argue with being given orders from a Circle Mage. In a burst of light Morrigan swept into the sky as a bird. Meanwhile Wynne's magic never ceased and Alistair could do nothing to control the pure panic coursing through him. He lost Phaedra. What was he going to do? He couldn't do this without her. He never told her. He never kissed her.

A flash of light lands near them years yet minutes later, but Alistair pays no heed. Suddenly he feels himself being roughly shaken.

"Alistair!" Wynne began sharply, "enough! You need to carry her to camp."

Camp? Carry Phaedra to camp? Why? Was she still alive?

Hope and relief shot through him so suddenly it was nearly painful. He nodded, sniffing frozen trails of mucus along his upper lip. Only then did he know he had been crying.

With the most tender care Alistair lifted Phaedra into his arms and followed the other's through the forest. He had no idea where they were going, but the other's seemed to know and he didn't argue. Slowly some portion of his wits and logic resurfaced from under the tidal panic that had immersed him so completely. He listened when told to keep Phaedra off the frozen ground by all means, let them set up camp. He was able to suggest using his tent for Phaedra as it was much bigger than hers and it would be much easier to attend to her with room.

The other's worked at top speed, starting a fire, boiling water, setting up Alistair's tent with both his and Phaedra's bedroll stacked one on top of the other to give her more comfort and filled with every skin and blanket the others could spare. Finally Alistair laid the unconscious Phaedra on a bed of tanned hide and wool, followed by Wynne who promptly tore away the robes that had been completely destroyed and stripped her to treat her properly. Alistair had enough presence of mind to close his eyes, though Wynne acted as if he weren't also kneeling beside the dying elf. He looked up after Wynne nudged him, having covered Phaedra's breasts and lower body with blankets. She left her stomach exposed to treat it and Alistair was appalled by what he saw. The wound was glistening dark pink, but not bleeding by some magical means. There was no skin and Alistair could see some damaged unidentifiable entrails exposed. With a gag he quickly averted his eyes, his stomach rolling.

"Here," Wynne said gently some time later, handing him a rough wooden bowl full of steaming water and one of her own soft towels. They hadn't spoken the entire time she treated Phaedra. Alistair gave her a quizzical look.

"I've done everything I can," she informed him in a soft voice. "It's up to her now. I closed the wound but she lost too much blood. It's up to her body to replenish it, or we may lose her."

A swallow convulsed through Alistair's throat at her words, but he nodded his understand.

"What do I do with this?" he asked. His voice was rough from crying and lack of use. He lifted the bowl he was holding for emphasis.

"She shouldn't be covered in blood. Try to clean her up as best you can. I have a book on herbs that might help me make some sort of potion to help replenish her blood. I've never needed to heal anything like this before." She shook her wizened head sadly, looking down at Phaedra. "I'm afraid I'm not as knowledgeable as I should be for this task. I'll see what I can find."

Wynne patted his cheek with a sympathetic hand as she left the tent, revealing the twilight night twinkling with stars. Had he really spent all afternoon in here? He hadn't even noticed the lantern casting it's warm glow being lit, he had been so numb to the world. With careful, gentle hands he scooted closer to Phaedra and ran the damp cloth across her skin. Before too long the water was tinted scarlet and Alistair had carefully wiped away all visual signs of blood, even going as far as running his wet comb through her long hair to remove the blood and muck dried there.

As he finished and set the bowl aside Alistair could no longer fight the fatigue weighing down his limbs. Exhausted, eyes burning from tiredness, he stretched out beside Phaedra's bed. Despite the hard ground and only one deer skin in the freezing cold, he fell asleep quickly.

It was much, _much _too hot for her comfort. That was the first thing she was aware of. Next was the dull pounding in her head. With a groan Phaedra stretched, fighting the mountain of blankets, throwing them from her with shaking muscles. She never felt so weak.

Suddenly a rough snore cut through the air and she started, whipping her head to the side in panic, creaking her neck. She thought she was alone. But the panic melted away to be replaced with affection as she saw Alistair's face a foot away from hers, yet lower, pressed against the floor of the tent. It wasn't her tent either, she mused, doing her best to shake off the dizzy feeling spinning in her head and the unnerving weakness in her limbs. Taking in account Alistair's presence she could assume reasonably that it was Alistair's tent she was housed in. Her head gave a nasty throb and she groaned.

_Maker! What happened?_

"Phaedra?" Alistair's voice reached her suddenly, soft and drained with sleep.

"Hi," she responded in a small voice, trying to convey he could go back to sleep. She didn't want to keep him awake. But rather that drift off again he stretched with a groan and Phaedra heard several joints pop as he straightened out on the hard ground. She flinched with guilt at the sound. Did she take his bedroll as well as his tent?

Alistair propped himself up on his elbow and leaned over her, concern in his eyes. But Phaedra had a different reaction. Her heart leapted in her chest from his closeness and a flash of heat filled her despite her condition. Her eyes flickered to his lips, the ones she had imagined kissing at least once a day since the first day they met. What would they feel like? They were so close she could feel the heat of his breath as he whispered:

"How are you feeling?"

"Good," she breathed, her body suddenly strung tight with anticipation. She never kissed anyone before. In the Circle everyone kissed everyone and she refused to follow the trend, so she never allowed any advances from any boys. She didn't want to be just another bunny rabbit trying to get some jollies to suppress the depression of living in that gilded cage. And now her first kiss felt so close, and it was Alistair. _Alistair. _She couldn't remember a time after they met she didn't want him.

She couldn't look away from his lips. What would they feel like? And as her eyes flicker back to his she can see more than simply concern there now. His eyes flicker from her lips to her eyes again and again, in quick repetition. Can he be thinking the same thing? Can he want their lips to meet as much as her?

A shaking hand rises and his fingers burn a scalding trail as he strokes her cheek attentively. Oh, yes, Phaedra is certain he _must _be thinking the same thing. He _must _kiss her.

And he does.

His face moves closer and Phaedra is captivated, holding her breath, heart pounding erratically. His face is barely an inch away and he stops, looking at her with wonder, waiting for her to refuse him, both expecting and fearing that refusal. But her heart speeds up and she can feel his hot breath. When his face moves barely perceptibly closer Phaedra let's her eyes close and his lips press to hers. She can't breath, can't think, as she tries to memorize the perfect feeling coursing lightning through her. A new and wondrous form of magic completely foreign to her. His lips are soft and warm, slightly chapped from the Ferelden cold.

Perfect.

As Alistair finally let's himself feel that kiss he never thought he'd have, he knows it's not how he wanted it. Not how he imagined it. How could nearly losing her be what drove him forward? He wanted to woo her, completely sweep her off her feet. But her dazzling smile and brilliant blush as he pulled away doesn't leave room for regret. In a land ravaged by a blight and political turmoil, with the dependence of a nation resting on your shoulders you have to take what happiness you can. He could lose her the next day or he could die next week. That gave him all the more reason to seek out and cherish every moment he could with his Elven mage, Phaedra.


End file.
